Blame It On You

I’ve always loved the frost.

I don’t know why. Maybe it was the crisp intricate designs it made on my window. Maybe it was the way it crunched underfoot.

Or maybe it was the way it reminded me of you. My flower, you would call me.

Frost kills flowers,
my mother always used to say, shaking her head as she fingered the brittle breaking petals of her beloved plants. But not me. I thrived on it. On you. Frost is easy to melt, I told myself. I believed that I could be the one to warm you. Turn those steely glares into looks of love. Be your own personal Supergirl.

Maybe it’s what you wanted. Maybe it’s not. Maybe I shouldn’t still be here, out in the cold, by myself, changing everything for a person who isn’t even here anymore. But I’m not sure how to get back.

Frost kills flowers,
my mom always told me. It hasn’t killed me, but it still makes me think of you, still makes my heart ache.

Frost is easy to melt.

End